Shade of Red
by NellyNoob96
Summary: Molly/Sherlock. Post-Reichenbach. I know loads of people have done this, but this is my take. Includes/revolves around Sick!Molly and Doctor!Sherlock.  on HIATUS as I am apparently unable to write and pass GCSEs
1. Chapter 1

**I don't really know what this is at the mo, I was bored, so I wrote this: **.com/post/16227311550/im-bored. **Then I got bored again so I built on it. It's a bit very short, so :) but, here anyways.**

**I don't own this, Moff and Godtiss do. Oh, and Sir Arthur :)**

"Sherlock?" she called limply, "I'm back!" Scuffing into the lounge, a soft cough racking through her, she got a reply almost immediately.

"I know, Molly, I can hear you." Sherlock was perched like an owl on the arm of a leather chair; his palms pressed together, fingertips tickling the underside of his chin. He was wrapped in Molly's purple dressing-gown, obviously too small for him. She mentally warned him, again, not to snoop.

"You're tired, Molly." Sherlock stated, not even glancing away from his spot on the floor as she stumbled past him into the kitchen. Molly grumbled in reply, tugging open the fridge and trying to avoid the bloody body parts air-packed in plastic. She rummaged to the back, pulling out a pack of frozen peas. She fell onto the sofa opposite Sherlock and coughed again into her fist, groaning and pressing the freezing pack against her forehead. Sherlock looked up then. He took in her appearance. Hot flush, drooping eyelids, pale skin, heavy breathing, lack of limb control, cough.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" He could barely hear her.

"… Did you get the shopping?"

Molly inhaled deeply and her eyelashes fluttered. "Yes, Sherlock."

He paused for a moment, and then hopped off the arm, landing gracefully on his toes. He stalked around the cluttered coffee table and peered at the half-asleep woman, leaning over her slightly. Molly grimaced as the heat from the light was blocked, and stirred gently, the cold pack slipping. Sherlock caught it before it sunk into the sofa and carefully replaced it on her forehead. He placed his palm onto the icy plastic, increasing the pressure and earning himself a thin smile from Molly.

Sherlock shuffled into a comfortable position on the sofa beside her, keeping a constant palm on her forehead and up a low hum, and soon Molly fell into a deep sleep. When her head lolled onto his shoulder, her mouth parted against his suit and her long hair falling the length of his arm, Sherlock decided she needed to move. Spinning the slightly defrosted pack of peas onto the nearby coffee table, he slid his right arm under her knees and his left around her shoulders. In sleep, Molly slowly curled up against his chest, and he unconsciously tightened his arms around her little body.

Sherlock cradled Molly the entire length of the flat- her bedroom being the small, breezy box at the end of the corridor; then changed his mind at the state, size and temperature of the room. He doubled back, making sure Molly's head didn't collide with the blue wall, and headed for the spare room; 'his' room. He pushed open the door with his foot and padded over the piles of clothes and sheet music to the unmade bed. Sherlock carefully placed the still sleeping woman in the centre of the double and pulled the crinkled purple sheet up to her chin. She curled into a ball under the sheet and sniffed loudly, coughing into the pillow. Sherlock rummaged under the bed and pulled out a handful of single, white tissues and dropped them beside her head on the fabric. He smoothed down her long hair and stared at her for a moment, thoughts swirling behind his eyes. When Molly stirred, Sherlock was shocked out of his trance and cleared his throat, straightening up and striding to the door. He took one last look at the sleeping woman and sighed, closing the door and retaking his perch on the arm of the chair. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock's ice-mint eyes were dilated from the moment Molly stumbled through the door.

**Uhh, I know it was so very bit lots short, but it's a kinda opening thingy to hopefully a few short bits from post-Reichenbach :) Sorry :D Anyways, R&R or whatevs, thankyou! :) xx**

**P.S. Did you get the pupil dilation bit at the end? Eh? ;) Oh, and I honestly don't know why this is called 'Shade of Red'! :D If you can think of anything else, I will appreciate! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thankyou so much for the reviews, favourites, etc! It's so kind of you all! :3 And thanks for all the inquisitive suggestions on the title :) **

**I don't own, of course; Moff, Godtiss and Conan Doyle do. If I owned Sherlock, Benedict would be in my bed right this very second.**

Sherlock didn't see Molly surface for the next 24 hours. Of course there was the occasional peek into the dark room to check she was still breathing; but Sherlock carried out the meaningless task in a daze, as if he had no idea he was doing it. When she tripped out of his bedroom at 6 'o' clock the next evening; dazed, confused and coughing; he welcomed her in the kitchen with a mug of tea and an apple. He smirked at the sheer volume of her usually light hair. It bunched around her pale face and a stray curl stuck vertically on the top of her head. It fell well past her shoulders and Sherlock saw she had changed into a badly ironed, white shirt. And only that.

"Apple?" She groaned, rubbing her eyes and sneezing into the crook of her elbow, stood awkwardly before the man in the dressing gown. Sherlock glanced at the apple in his left hand questionably.

"Yes?"

"No one eats apples when they're ill, Sherlock." Molly prised the fruit out of his fingers and placed it back into the wooden bowl in the centre of the table. She shuffled to the counter and clicked the kettle, leaning against the marble as she waited for the water to boil.

"I believe that's my shirt, yes?" Sherlock said without looking at her, re-arranging the fruit bowl then pulling out a chair and slipping into it. It wasn't a question. He could practically feel the heat from her blush and out of the corner of his eye, noticed her gesturing to remove the cloth she had grasped from the bedroom floor.

"Leave it, Molly."

He ruffled through the papers and found his laptop under more sheet music. His eyes scanned over the melody before he tossed it aside and opened the computer screen with a click, searching through the numerous folders on cases he had downloaded.

"Oh. Okay."

Molly waited beside the kettle, shifting her toes on the brown lino and watching Sherlock think. The kettle pinged and she poured hot water into a sparkly red, cat mug; along with a tea bag and multiple spoonfuls of sugar. Sipping the boiling drink, she hissed as it stung at her top lip, and blew gently into the tea. Realising the short length of the... his shirt, Molly tugged it down her thighs a little further and shuffled past him to the lounge. She collapsed into the sofa and placed the mug on a coffee table coaster, beside a completely defrosted, sagging pack of peas. Molly frowned slightly as she wracked her brain for a reasoning as to why they were there. A soft cough rumbling from her throat reminded her, and she looked up at Sherlock as he typed incredibly fast in the kitchen.

"Sh-Sherlock?" She fumbled, her fingers knotting together as she realised what he must have done. He didn't look up from the laptop screen and Molly was beginning to wonder if he had heard her, when he hummed,

"Mmm?"

Molly swallowed and stood, patting over to hover beside him. The corner of the table dug into her leg as she leant on it, but she stared down into the man's deep, dark curls.

"Did you... carry me to bed last night?" She could feel herself blushing again and knew that Sherlock could sense it too.

"Yes, I did."

She almost smiled and cleared her throat, glancing down at her intertwined fingers.

"Your bed?" Molly felt her stomach heat at the idea of sleeping in Sherlock's bed, but Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"Yes. Your bedroom is atrocious."

Molly laughed and the ghost of a smile passed over Sherlock's thick lips for a fraction of a second before it disappeared, as did he into his work. Molly regained herself, coughed, then nodded and went to retrieve her mug of tea.

"I'm going to get ready for work." She grumbled reluctantly and Sherlock snorted.

"No."

"What?"

"You're not going to work." He looked up then. "As you said, you're ill, you're not going. You obviously don't want to anyway. They'll have that frustratingly annoying replacement for you." He smiled again briefly, then turned back to his work. Molly sighed gratefully; he was tight, she didn't want to go.

"You shouldn't be walking around so much. Back to bed, then." He ordered bluntly. Before she headed down the hall to her little room, she made sure she placed the strewn aside pack of peas beside Sherlock and cast him a wonky grin, hoping he'd see the thankyou.

Sherlock spun the red laptop into the cushion like a Frisbee. The cases were complete, the police had solved them. The police! He perched on the leather chair, drumming his fingers into his cheeks, puffing them in and out again. In and out. In and out. He groaned and bounced off, landing catlike and stalking over to the window. Frost crept up the glass and blurred the view, and Sherlock stood on the tips of his toes to peer over the translucent white into the street below. Molly's flat was nice, decent, average; but the scenery sure wasn't. Baker Street was jam-packed with cars, people, smoky clouds and noise. Not good for the mind or the health, but Sherlock could block that out in a second. Molly's street; a quiet street in the lonely outskirts of London; was just that, lonely and quiet. The street was bright and clear and empty most of the time, and Sherlock didn't like it one bit. But it was outside. It was outside the flat, in the fresh air. He huffed and pushed away from the window, thudding down the hallway of the flat.

"MOLLY!" He yelled, coming to a grinding stop in front of her door, his nose almost touching the cream wood. When he got no answer he hammered on the door.

"Molly! I want to go outside! I need to go outside! I'm going insane!" He expected her to burst out and shout that he couldn't go outside, or was acting like a child; but only silence met him. He was about to moan again when something stopped him. Something in his stomach worried at her lack of response.

"Molly?" He called softly, rapping on her door in the same spot, lighter than before. Still no reply. Hoping she was decent, Sherlock pressed his fingers into the wood and it creaked open, to his slight surprise. Molly always locked the door. He peered in to the room, his head poking around the frame, eyes scanning. Her room was, as he had observed, atrocious. The bed was unmade and a pink blanket was strewn across the floor. Cushions and cuddly toys scattered the empty mattress and multiple mugs filled the bedside table. The pattered walls were layered with photographs; one of a young Molly at college; a large family; Molly as a child with an older man who, judging by the resemblance, could only be her father; and many more memories. A long mirror dragged from ceiling to carpet and makeup stains littered the glass. The wardrobe doors were wide open and it was filled with outfits. Outfits of which Molly would call cute, but Sherlock would call childish. Cardigans with cherries, jumpers with cats, and plenty a Christmas top. Sherlock smirked, but the smile dropped as his ice-mint eyes fell on the woman in question. She was slumped on the floor between the stained mirror and the bed, arms swung far over her head. Her eyes were tight shut and her chest barely rose as she breathed. Sherlock glided over to her and crouched over her body. There was no sign of a struggle; but Molly's brow was patterned with beads of sweat and her eyelids fluttered manically, showing a fever. He growled and rubbed his face, he told her she shouldn't be walking around. So what does she do? Attempt to organise her room. Walk around. He avoided the bottom half of her body, knowing too well that his shirt had ridden up; and wrapped his arms around her as he had done the night before, pulling her close and lifting her off the floor. Her hair fell into her face and clung to her damp forehead and he pulled them away carefully with his right hand. Sherlock placed her on her own bed, experiencing what John would call déjà-vu, as he covered her with the duvet. He sighed as he stalked out of the room to fetch the trusty pea bag. She really needed to stop making a habit out of those evening collapses.

**Whoo! I'm happy with this one, because... well, it's longer! :D It's not great in content, but next chapter I'll try and get them out the house, or somewhere other than the bedroom! ;) hahaha! Okay. Please R&R and such, appreciated greatly. I'll try update with a more interesting chapter, but it could have to wait until next weekend; I never really go on the laptop on school nights :) thankyou xx**

**P.S. I think I cried when I wrote '**_**jam**_**-packed'! Oh, John! :(**


	3. Chapter 3

So the holidays are coming up the week after next. Its two weeks long and I'm hoping I can bash out as much stuff as I can and finish as many fics as I can... and I'M SO SORRY BECAUSE I HAVEN'T UPDATED ANYTHING IN AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER **AND I FEEL SO BAD ABOUT IT.**

**Remember I do still love you. **x


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